


We Fell

by Zimra



Series: Ai Atalantë [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Akallabêth, F/M, Family Drama, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-29 12:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zimra/pseuds/Zimra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amandil had been dear to Pharazôn, once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Omens

The sky was a bright, clear blue, despite the dark clouds that had hung over the sea that morning like brooding birds. The sight of them had filled Amandil with an irrational fear, even though they had prepared for this, and could move the entire party indoors at a moment’s notice if the weather should turn foul. It had rained all through his own wedding day, and his grandmother had insisted it was a bad omen. He and Aranwen had smiled at each other, sharing secret amusement at the old woman’s superstitions, far too happy to mind the rain. His grandmother had died less than a year after the wedding, and Aranwen had joined her a few years later, when their son was just a child. He couldn’t help feeling profoundly relieved when Elendil’s wedding had taken place in the full light of Anar.

The ceremony had been well-attended, the great hall of the Lord’s House in Andúnië filled to the brim with local nobility and important people from all over the island. Then the party had moved to the extensive gardens, where it would no doubt continue for the rest of the day and into the evening, getting steadily rowdier as the night wore on. Amandil mingled with the older guests, leaving Elendil and Illisailë and their group of young friends to themselves. 

Only one guest of Elendil’s age stood apart from the others. At a gathering full of tall, dark, and proud people, he was the darkest and proudest (though not the tallest; he and Amandil were at eye-level, and Elendil stood several inches taller than them both). He observed the newlyweds and their friends with an indulgent sort of smile on his face, as though watching children at play. This surprised Amandil not at all. 

Pharazôn turned and smiled when he saw his old friend and mentor approaching. Amandil had a commanding presence, and though he was not very old his long hair had all turned grey. He had a determined look on his face, the one that Pharazôn knew meant he intended to bestow some sage advice upon his unwary listener. He braced himself, determined to avoid an argument.

“You look well,” the older man said. “I am surprised to see you here. I thought you would be in Rómenna, preparing to depart. I understand Tar-Palantir has offered you a command in the East.”

Pharazôn did not miss the note of disapproval in Amandil’s voice. He smiled warmly and said, “The fleet does not depart for another two weeks, and I could not bear the thought of missing my dear friend’s wedding.”

Amandil raised his eyebrows. “Really. Then you do intend to strike out for Ennor to earn glory in the wars?”

“I do.” Pharazôn had intended to make this conversation easier by playing up his respect and affection for the man, but he had forgotten that Amandil was perhaps the only noble in Númenor who was not susceptible to flattery. Even Tar-Palantir responded well to his polite, charming nephew, despite the falling out between the king and his brother. 

“And did you come all this way just to tell me your decision?” Amandil asked. “You and Elendil have not been close friends since you were boys.”

“True,” Pharazôn conceded, “but I am primarily here as my cousin’s escort. Míriel is still good friends with the bride.” Amandil continued to scrutinize him. At last, Pharazôn said, “I did want to see you before departing. It may be many years before I return to Númenor. I admit I had hoped that you would wish me luck.”

Amandil sighed. He looked out over the gardens to where Elendil, Illisailë, and their friends had called for music and begun dancing in an open green lawn. They were enjoying themselves as young people should, while the young man in front of him knew only ambition and guile. He was determined and intelligent, but Amandil never felt quite sure of the boy’s motives. He wished, as he occasionally caught himself wishing, that Pharazôn had been _his_ son. In Armenelos he had done his best to temper Gimilkhâd’s influence over him, but the intrigues and manipulations of that family had worked their way into Pharazôn’s blood. 

“I have only ever wished the best of luck for you,” Amandil said, taking on a formal tone that Pharazôn knew meant he was trying to distance himself from his emotions.

“I am glad,” he replied, “truly. I value your good opinion a great deal, believe it or not.” He hoped the slight teasing in his remark would lighten the mood, but Amandil’s face only grew more somber. 

“If you would have me believe it, then listen to me. Do not cross the sea to lose your soul fighting the barbarians. This land is starting to fall apart at the seams. Númenor could use a man with your strength and sense of purpose in the years to come.”

The sincerity in his voice caught Pharazôn off guard. He looked straight into Amandil’s eyes, directly on a level with his own. What did he see there? Anger? A plea? Pity? He shook his head. 

“No, my lord. There is nothing for me here. I must gain my uncle’s respect before I can influence anything in Númenor, and going to war is the best way.”

“I can speak for you to Palantir! There is no need for this farce to continue,” Amandil protested.

“It is not a farce. I am serious. I wish to prove myself, not rely on the favor of others,” Pharazôn snapped.

He stopped to compose himself, feeling real anger rise and take hold of him. His face flushed with embarrassment. He hadn’t planned to let himself lose control at all. Amandil watched him thoughtfully, still concerned.

“Very well,” he said at last. “What is left for me to say besides ‘good luck?’” 

Pharazôn found himself lost for words for the first time that day. It was not at all like Amandil to back down from an opinion with so little effort. The response had distracted him so fully that he didn’t notice the quiet footsteps approaching, and the soft tap on his shoulder made him jump. He turned and glared when he saw the laughter in his cousin’s face. The petite, dark-haired young woman was one of the few people who could still make him feel like a foolish child. 

At the sight of the newcomer, a genuine smile returned to Amandil’s face. “Míriel,” he said, bowing respectfully. “Welcome to my city. How long has it been since you last visited Andúnië?”

“Far too long,” Míriel replied, laughing. “It must have been Elendil’s coming of age. This place is even more beautiful that I remember. I would visit more often, but you know that my father has been placing more responsibility on me in recent years. In fact, I am to lead the next meeting of the Council.”

Amandil nodded approvingly. As Tar-Palantir’s only child, Míriel would one day be Ruling Queen of Númenor, only the fourth in the country’s history. She, like Pharazôn, had spent her childhood alongside Elendil and Illisailë and the children of the other Council members. Amandil had never watched over her as he had Pharazôn, mostly because there had been no need. Míriel had been a friendly, sensible child who had grown into a capable, sharp-minded adult under Tar-Palantir’s kind, if somewhat distant tutelage. Her kind face and delicate build belied her determination. Amandil did not doubt that she would be a good ruler when her time came. 

“I really came over here to coax Pharazôn into joining us,” she said, gesturing at the dancers behind her. The slight smile on her face seemed to dare him to refuse. “Elendil would love to talk to you, but he’s having a little trouble getting away.” Pharazôn and Amandil both looked, and saw that Illisailë and Elendil had been separated and were being crowded by various guests and well-wishers. Both endeavored to look polite, but they were clearly losing patience.

“I will not hold it against you if you go,” Amandil said, chuckling at his son’s plight. “Please, rescue Elendil from his other guests.”

Pharazôn allowed Míriel to take his arm and lead him away, keeping his face carefully blank. He did not want to continue his conversation with Amandil, but was not at all satisfied with how it had ended. He would just have to fix things when he returned. These wars would be the making of him, he was sure. As Míriel steered him towards the rest of the party, he forced himself not to look back.


	2. A Hero and a King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion of implied rape.

“What a beautiful ceremony! So regal and opulent,” Illisailë said, without hesitation or any sign of pretense. Elendil silently thanked his wife for her tact; he doubted he would be able to think of a suitable compliment for this situation, and he knew he could never manage a smile as sincere as hers. The best he could do was maintain a calm, blank expression and carefully avoid the gazes of the two people standing before him.

“I am flattered that you think so,” Pharazôn replied, smiling graciously. “I still recall how magnificent your wedding was, and I hoped that the halls of the royal palace would impress my guests even half as much as the matchless gardens of Andúnië impressed me. I only regret that your sons could not join you here today.”

“As do I. They will be sorry to have missed it, but this is their first time sailing around the island on their own, and they are not expected to return for at least another week.” Illisailë laughed a little nervously, the picture of a concerned mother.

They carried on inanely for another few moments, then Pharazôn politely excused himself to greet his other guests. As he turned away, the woman on his arm held back for a moment, and Elendil unexpectedly found himself meeting her gaze. What he saw there frightened him; Míriel’s deep grey eyes, almost silver, were dull with resignation. The expression seemed totally foreign on the face of his wise, spirited kinswoman. What had Pharazôn done to her to induce such a profound change? Elendil cursed himself as he had so many times that day, lamenting his own powerlessness in this situation. 

“Elendil,” Illisailë said in a tense whisper. “Your father is here.” 

Hardly daring to believe it, Elendil looked to where his wife pointed. Amandil stepped through the entrance to the hall, his long grey hair hanging loose about his shoulders. He still wore his great cloak, dark and dripping from a ride through the pouring rain. The crowd parted around him, to avoid getting water on their fine clothes and out of shock at seeing him there. By now all the guests knew that the Lord of Andúnië had not attended the ceremony, though Pharazôn had requested his presence as a guest of honor. Such a slight could not go unnoticed by the new king, but no one had expected Amandil to flout etiquette even further by arriving late. 

Elendil began to walk towards his father, but Illisailë grabbed his arm. “Wait.” 

He stopped and watched as Amandil approached Pharazôn, the crowd between them rapidly thinning; no one wanted to stand in the way of a reckoning between two such men. He saw Pharazôn turn, his face the picture of genuine shock, though he did not quite mask the triumph in his eyes. He saw the king detach himself from Míriel’s grip and step forward to greet his old friend, and he watched Míriel fade back into the shadows and slip away to another corner of the room. 

Elendil looked at Illisailë, and she nodded. Together they began making their way across the room towards the queen. Elendil knew that his father could deal with Pharazôn by himself, and this would be the first time any of them had had a chance to talk to Míriel since before her betrothal. 

~

Pharazôn could feel the eyes of everyone in the room upon him, sensing that all superfluous activity had stopped and the people in the immediate vicinity had drawn back. A small part of him was amused, but ultimately the whole scenario was far too dramatic for his taste. Although this confrontation was inevitable, it would not do to have it in public. He hadn’t really expected Amandil to make an appearance today, but he had thought about the possibility and what he would do if it happened. 

“Lord Amandil,” he said, loudly and graciously, “you are very welcome. I am honored that you have put so much effort into accepting my invitation, even in these poor traveling conditions.” He watched Amandil expectantly until the older man bowed, never taking his cold gaze off Pharazôn. “You have been sorely neglected, I see.” He raised a hand and beckoned, and a servant appeared almost instantly beside him. “Take the Lord of Andúnië’s cloak for him, and see that it is properly dried,” he ordered.

Amandil rather reluctantly removed his cloak and handed it to the servant, who vanished as quickly as he had appeared. Underneath it he wore only simple traveling clothes, nowhere near the standard of dress appropriate for a royal wedding. Pharazôn smiled slightly; no doubt the unsuitable clothes were another gesture of disdain on Amandil’s part, but they provided a perfect excuse for Pharazôn to move their conversation elsewhere. 

“I see that in your haste to arrive, you were unable to find time to dress properly,” Pharazôn said, as casually as though Amandil had not blatantly flouted court etiquette. “No matter; we are the same height, although I fear you may be a little thinner. You are welcome to borrow some of my clothes for the remainder of the party.”

Amandil stared at him blankly for a moment, though his icy expression doubtless concealed some internal debate. At last he nodded, and said stiffly, “I accept your very generous offer.”

“Then I shall accompany you myself. Please, follow me,” Pharazôn said, and swept from the hall without a backward glance, regally ignoring the stares of his guests.

~

Elendil silently thanked his father for leaving the hall without protest. Their departure had shocked the majority of the guests and left them milling around like confused sheep, distracting them effectively from Míriel - and, more importantly, Pharazôn was now safely out of the way.

The lamplight that flooded the great hall did not fully illuminate the far corner where Míriel waited for them, which suited Elendil very well. They found her leaning against the wall and staring up at nothing, one hand clutching the fabric of a banner that hung there. As they approached her, she turned her gaze from one to the other, her eyes still devoid of life. The heavy ivory gown she wore seemed to weigh down her slender frame, and made her pale face appear utterly bloodless.

“What happened?” Elendil asked, keeping his voice low even though everyone around them appeared distracted. In Armenelos, you could never be sure who was listening - his father had taught him that well enough.

“I trusted him. I was foolish to trust him, but I did.” Míriel’s voice was as empty of emotion as her gaze.

“Tell me. Please,” he implored, hoping for some sign that the Míriel he knew was still alive, hiding somewhere behind those dull eyes. 

She stared at the ground for a long moment, then began to speak. “He came back from the East a mighty war hero, loved by everyone, including my father. His popularity was growing quickly even before Father named him his chief general; he thought that having Gimilkhâd’s son in a powerful position would help diffuse some of the tension with his brother’s supporters, and for a while it worked fairly well. In the last few years, when Father stopped living in Armenelos, I was the one running everything, with Pharazôn’s help. And when Father died...well, he was never very popular with the people. Most of them thought him a backward fool.” Her voice was heavy with bitterness now, but at least it no longer sounded utterly lifeless. “Pharazôn overpowered me. He had more supporters, the loyalty of the soldiers...” A flicker of pain crossed her face, and was quickly banished. “He was stronger.”

Illisailë covered her mouth with one hand, her eyes wide with horror. Elendil felt sick; he had known this was coming, had been denying it ever since he heard the announcement that Pharazôn and Míriel were to wed. 

“Oh, Míriel,” Illisailë said, wrapping her arms around the smaller woman. For a moment Míriel stood stiffly in her friend’s embrace, then she leaned forward and buried her face in Illisailë’s shoulder. Elendil’s wife looked up at him, her blue eyes fearful. _What do we do now?_ they seemed to ask him. But he knew, they both knew, that there was nothing they _could_ do. 

He thought about his father and Pharazôn, and wondered what they were saying right now. If anyone could convince the king (how Elendil hated to think of him as the king) to see sense, it would be Amandil - but perhaps it was too late, even for that.

_Eru, please let there be some shred of humanity left in him._

~

Pharazôn led the way to the King of Númenor’s private study, an ancient wood-paneled room in the oldest part of the palace where Elros Tar-Minyatur was said to have sat every evening to write his letters. He watched as Amandil surveyed the room coldly, his disapproval almost palpable. Pharazôn had removed all of Tar-Palantir’s possessions the moment the old king died, and what remained looked austere and empty. It was no longer the room of a scholar, a student of Númenor’s past, but of a soldier as Pharazôn was, as Elros Tar-Minyatur had been. The thought filled Pharazôn with a deep satisfaction. Númenor needed a warrior-king, not a weak-willed old man who believed only in the superiority of archaic customs.

Sitting in the hard-backed chair behind the imposing desk, he indicated that Amandil should take the seat across from him. The older man didn’t move; he just stared stonily back at Pharazôn, waiting for him to speak. 

“I did not think I would see you today,” Pharazôn said. “You caused quite a stir with your entrance. Tell me, why did you come?” He kept his tone pleasant, though not without a hint of steel behind it. Amandil must not think that Pharazôn would allow him to gain the upper hand.

“I came to hear what you have to say for yourself,” Amandil said. 

Pharazôn had to fight to keep from rolling his eyes; Amandil could not think that his fatherly act would work on him today. Instead he smiled at the Lord of Andúnië, and said, “What I have to say for myself? Why, you yourself once said that Númenor could use a man like me, one with my ‘strength and sense of purpose,’ I believe were your exact words. I have found my strength, and my purpose - to make Númenor greater than it ever was, than any nation will ever be!”

His speech was cut short by the sound of something smashing. Amandil had picked up a crystal goblet, the only decorative item on the desk, and thrown it with all his might against the far wall. His cold, closed expression had given way to blazing eyes, fists clenched and jaw twitching as he struggled to maintain his veneer of control.

Despite himself, Pharazôn almost flinched. He had never seen so much anger contained in one man before; not Tar-Palantir, not soldiers seeking revenge for fallen comrades on the battlefield, not even his father in one of his rages. The look in Amandil’s eyes awakened a long-forgotten sensation deep in his belly, the all-consuming, helpless fear he had felt so often as a child. But when Amandil spoke, his voice was soft, though harsh.

“Strength means nothing when it is used to take advantage of another’s trust.”

Pharazôn took a step back, his breath rushing out of him as though the older man had punched him in the stomach. 

“What - what are you saying?” he stammered, cursing inwardly as he felt his own control slipping. “What do you accuse me of?”

“Do not toy with me, Pharazôn,” Amandil said, placing a slight emphasis on the name without its kingly title. “Míriel has loved you dearly since you were children, but marriage? Giving up the throne that she was raised for, becoming queen consort to a man who spent half his adult life seeking glory in foreign lands instead of learning what Númenor needed? These are not things she would do of her own free will.” 

He found himself slumping back down into his chair, his hands landing painfully on the desk. He stared down at its dark surface, unable to meet Amandil’s eyes.

_“Do not do this, Pharazôn!”_

Míriel’s face appeared in his mind, eyes imploring him to reconsider, her hair and clothes knocked askew as she sat on the ground where she had fallen. _Where you pushed her._

He had tried to reason with her, to explain that this was the only way, that the people would accept only him as king and her marriage to him would help everything go more smoothly. But she had refused his proposal, refused to give up her claim to the throne, though she knew they were alone in her rooms in the depths of the palace, and all the guards at the doors were his men.

_Why did she have to be so stubborn?_

She had not resisted much, however, once she realized what he intended to do. Not that it would have made much of a difference if she had - her slender build was no match for his soldier’s strength, and she knew it. When it was over, he had seen in her face the painful wreckage of the deepest kind of trust, built up over more than a century of friendship, torn to shreds in only a few minutes. And he had caused it. 

“What would you have me do?” he asked quietly, keeping his eyes fixed on the surface of the desk. 

“Give up this madness. Step aside and return the throne to Míriel, and tell your people to support her as the rightful ruler of Númenor. It is the only way you can possibly hope to atone for what you have done.” Amandil didn’t even try to hide the disgust in his voice. 

Pharazôn clenched his fists, grinding his knuckles into the desk’s wooden surface. Hot, seething anger gained momentum in his mind, slowly overcoming his guilt. _What gives him the right? Does he think he can control me with threats and reprimands, as though I were still a child?_ The image of Míriel’s face faded in the wake of the rage that now rose within him.

“That I will not do. Tar-Palantir’s daughter is not the rightful heir. She never was; she has always been weak, like her father before her!” Somehow in his anger he made himself believe it, letting the memory of Gimilkhâd’s ranting drown out Míriel’s protests. _“That wretched girl of Inziladûn’s will bring our people to ruin even more quickly than her father has!”_

The words seemed to hang in the air between them (whether a challenge or a barrier Pharazôn could not tell) and for a long time neither man moved. Then Amandil’s face grew suddenly tired, and for a moment he looked old enough for his grey hair. 

“If you cannot give up the throne, then Númenor will fall,” was all he said. 

Pharazôn fixed him with an imperious glare. “I shall forgive you for those words, Lord Amandil, for the respect I bear you,” he said. “Your king is not so feeble that he cannot tolerate disagreement. But there is one matter in which you have clearly erred, and I feel I must correct you before you go: my queen’s name is Zimraphel.”

Amandil bowed his head, acknowledging the dismissal. His expression was stony and impassive again as he turned and left the study. As Pharazôn watched him go, he felt the thrill of his victory over his old mentor drain away, leaving him cold and empty.


End file.
